First Date, Too Late
by Sherlockfan12
Summary: After Sherlock's 'death', he and John both come to realize just how much they mean to each-other. A touching, pre-mature reunion ensues, full of tears and kisses and no fighting. A serious and 'realistic' but not stressful post-Reichenbach Reunion. Slash, Johnlock, Angsty begining but it ends happy.


**Author's Note:** _So I finally watched the Reichenbach Fall episode and needed some comfort and closure. I hate drawn out angst so this is a happy resolution in which Sherlock and John get back together with minimal drama after having realized just how much they mean to each-other. It's more serious than silly, but there's no fighting and there are plenty of cuddles and kisses. I've left many details having to do with that episode rather vague, seeing as we're awaiting explanations. I've also left the time frame unspecified. Whatever it is, it's been long enough for John to have gone through a whole gamut of emotions and inner processing already, but not 'too' long. I just can't stand for them to be separated a long time, so this is one of my versions of fixing that with Sherlock revealing himself to John sooner than he intended._

_It's mostly from Sherlock's perspective, (third person limited I guess you'd call it), but I do have some insights into John's thoughts which I think Sherlock would be pretty good at reading without him having to actually say them. There is a possibility I will write a companion piece to this showing how John came to his realization of his feelings, possibly as a prequil (which would be more melancholy) but I'm not promising anything at this point. _

_Oh yes, and a Hobbit reference happened to sneak itself in there, hehe_

_-Obligatory Disclaimer -_

_These characters belong to the BBC show writers Moffat and Gatiss. This is just fanfiction, no profits made, blah blah blah. And my apologies for any fangirlish butcherings which have no doubt occurred herein._

* * *

**First Date, Too Late**

Usually Sherlock watched John from a safe distance, but he'd been gradually testing the limits of how close he could get without being caught. It was a stupid risk, and he knew it, but he couldn't pass up the challenge. Of course Sherlock wouldn't _say_ he missed John, though he found himself thinking a lot about their times together as he watched him. Perhaps some part of him wanted to be caught, in spite of his carefully laid plan. But John was so removed from the world around him these days that it wasn't hard to avoid his notice. His gaze was usually on the ground or turned inwards on his memories. At first John had striven to put a brave face on it and hold himself together, but that hadn't worked. Sherlock's nagging need to keep watch over him had been cemented when he'd seen John stop in the middle of the street to stare up in a daze at St. Bart's and almost got himself run over. It had brought home to him just how badly John was coping, and in spite of himself he'd been anxious for John's safety ever since, being well aware that he was responsible for John's current state. By now John had given up on pretending he was okay, except to his therapist, and simply plodded dejectedly through day after day, favoring people who attempted to cheer him up with a vague pitying smile. Sherlock could almost hear the sarcastic thought that accompanied that look: _'yeah, good luck with that.'_

Today John looked even more weary than usual as he made his way through the graveyard, his face more melancholy than the gloomy sky that threatened to drizzle any minute. The flowers in John's arms were such a stark contrast to him they captivated Sherlock's attention: bright red roses. John was staring at them too as he trudged down the path in what had become his customary daze, but still as he came nearer Sherlock's grave his step quickened with determination and that shred of twisted hope that made him eager to be close to Sherlock, as if proximity to his dead body might eventually result in some kind of response, some kind of relief to his loneliness. People told John to stop coming all the time, but Sherlock saw that this was the only place he ever found any sense of peace, even if it served to keep the wound raw. As John slumped down on the grass before Sherlock's headstone, eyes already spilling over as he was too tired today to try and hold them back, Sherlock gave into himself and crept up softly behind him, confident that John would be oblivious to the world around him for at least 15 minutes, as Sherlock had observed so many times before.

He'd always constrained himself to the shadows, but today there was something about John that drew him closer than he told himself he should, drew him right out into the open, close enough to hear John's voice even though it was barely more than a mumble. It wasn't the voice he constantly heard in his head as he remembered it, scolding him and praising him, just as John would have done if he'd been by his side. Now John's voice trembled and cracked and was punctuated by horrendously soggy sniffles, no sign of the steady confidence that he remembered. Just like the rest of John. He was breaking down in every way before Sherlock's very eyes and it was getting harder and harder to bear, but yet he found himself compelled to watch him more and more often, even though it accomplished nothing but additional stabs to his conscience; a completely useless habit that he couldn't quit. Feeding his guilt and wasting his time watching John crumble wouldn't further any of his goals, but he couldn't stop; he _had_ to watch John forcing himself to go shopping, dragging himself home from work, persistently coming to sit by his grave, in the same way that John _had_ to come sit by it. The idea that someone would care this much for him, that someone would find him a vital part of their existence was strangely intoxicating. He couldn't believe it, so he had to keep hearing it and seeing it, as he struggled to shift his view of himself to make this unexpected reality make sense. He'd never tried to make anyone care for him, never wanted anyone to burden themselves with such feelings for him, always imagined he was independent with no more than transient ties to anyone. Yet obviously his assumption that John would be able to move on with his own life, and perhaps even be better off with out him, was being proven completely false with every passing day. John's life had essentially come to a halt, and to Sherlock's surprise and frustration, so had his own. Although he made progress at bringing down the people connected to Moriarty so he could clear his name, it all seemed like a distant dream; he felt nothing of the vitality he had once known. All his focus was robbed by the useless preoccupation of stalking John.

His own inability to distance himself from John was probably jeopardizing the purpose of this separation, but he went mad with distraction the days he had to go without observing John, so there was no use to fighting it whenever it _was_ possible to follow him. He'd stopped arguing with himself and questioning his reason because he knew his resolve to be logical about it would dissipate in the instant the clock indicated John would be leaving the flat or leaving work. Since his 'death' he had discovered, and finally come to accept, that John was the one thing he couldn't think about objectively. His need for… John, for _watching_ John, as ridiculous as that seemed, was even worse than any of the other addictions he'd allowed himself to fall into before. And he knew that telling himself he even wanted to quit was complete rubbish. The truth was he was falling apart as much as John was, and the only way he knew how to vent his own feelings was through watching John cry and rant and express everything he felt. He'd never believed caring about someone could help save them, but it seemed that he'd become dependent on John's care for him to keep himself going now. He truly felt as though he'd left his life behind and become a ghost; John's memory of him was the thread of life he hung upon. Without John he might have simply faded into the shadows for good. Fame, infamy, or obscurity didn't matter to him, but what John thought of him did. He'd been fooling himself to think that it didn't. John's stubborn faith in him in spite of everything meant more than he could have imagined.

And, in spite of all he believed about himself, his motivation had shifted. It was no longer his pride in his intellect that drove him, nor even the thrill of the chase. Protecting John, and making him proud, even if he didn't actually know what Sherlock was doing, overshadowed all his other motivations. He could tell himself that he wasn't everything John thought him to be, but that didn't change that he felt driven to not disappoint him.

Sherlock watched with intrigue while John wiped his eyes and gathered himself back together as he rustled about with the bag he'd had over his arm, out of which he pulled a candle, a glass, a takeaway box, and a bottle of wine. Sherlock had never been close enough before to hear what John whispered to his grave; he'd only heard when he ranted to him about being a brilliant idiot, and an arrogant git, and why couldn't he have trusted John to help him through, and didn't he know how much it would hurt to leave John behind all alone to handle things, and he'd better just stop this and find some way to come back, or else why couldn't he just let him go and stop tormenting his mind day and night. Sherlock silently accepted all the beratings, indeed almost welcomed them for reasons he couldn't fathom. But John had lost the strength for anger a couple of months ago, and now he often just sat, gaunt with defeat, or mumbled to Sherlock in a husky whisper, clinging to the denial that kept him standing at all. Sherlock itched to know what all John told his grave day after day, even though it was likely to be as repetitive as when he yelled at him, but now he was utterly surprised to find that in a small quiet voice John was asking for his forgiveness.

As John lit the candle and placed it between himself and the headstone, Sherlock hung entranced on that subdued voice which held a subtle note of determination.

"Sherlock? I'm sure you'd say this is stupid, I know nobody else would understand." He laughed wryly, "they'll probably think you turned me into a necrophiliac or say I've gone mad. I guess I have. But I'm going to do this right at last,…" his voice went hoarse, "even if it's too late." He composed himself once again as best he could and sat up a little straighter as he uncorked the wine and poured some into the glass for himself and some into the grass on Sherlock's grave. Sherlock peered cautiously over John's shoulder. "We're having a date, Sherlock. A real one. Not one where you tag along distracting me. Not one where it's just two people who like each-other having fun. I even dressed up," he announced, " but I think I'll keep my coat on out here. I know you look dashing in anything, probably even in death." He tried to joke, as he rubbed at his eye. "I know you couldn't be bothered to come out, so I brought dinner here." John paused and squeezed his eyes closed a moment. He swallowed and then continued, "I can still see your eyes staring at me like I've missed something. Well I guess I did, something huge. So now I'm going to stare back into them across the table and tell you the truth that you probably don't want to hear. I know you don't like feelings, but now you can't interrupt and brush it off, Sherlock.

"You were right that I'm an idiot, but so are you. You with all your 'I don't have feelings' bullshit, do you think it wasn't obvious how jealous you were of my girlfriends?" He swallowed again and bent his head as he mumbled, "Me with all my blathering 'I'm not gay,' I can't really believe you of all people didn't see that it was _you_ who always came before everything else in my life. I should have done this ages ago, …when I had the chance. I can't believe we were both too stupid to admit what was obvious to everyone who saw us. Even that first night, when you thought I was interested, I told myself I wasn't, but in hindsight I think I actually was. You…captivated me like no one else. I was willing to do anything for you. And I don't think I should have taken that lame excuse of yours when…" his voice trembled again with the memory, " when you looked at me the way you did." His eyes spilled over again. "What might we have had together if we hadn't beat around the bush all that time? Why didn't we see what we _did_ have together? What might we have had now? Damn it, Sherlock, how could you not know this would kill me too? _I_ _believed in you Sherlock_, couldn't that have been enough? Couldn't _I _have been enough for you, enough reason to keep living?" He shuddered and let out a quivering sigh.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," his lips trembled as he stared into the swirling depths of the petals in his lap. "I don't care if you don't want to hear it, but… I think maybe you really did and I just ….never tried to find out how you felt. …I'm so sorry I never did this, never brought you roses even if you didn't care for them, never just …took your hand in mine when we were so close," his eyes closed with the pain of longing as he reached across the 'table' to lace his fingers through the grass, "I-I'm sorry I never gave you your first kiss, even if you would have punched me for it." He doubled over with the sickness of regret and hopeless yearning, "I'm _so_ sorry I never told you … how much I…" his shoulders shook and he heaved a ragged breath, "that you were … " His tears fell into the roses as he curled forward, sniffing uselessly as his face streamed, "You were everything, Sherlock; you were my life. I'm sorry it took me this long to finally understand. I _loved_ you, more than just a friend." He sniffed again, shuddering, "_I still love you Sherlock._ …and …I think I understand now that somehow, you loved me too?" his voice was so small and quavering now. _ "_So please, _please_ forgive me for denying it, for letting you die without knowing …how much you were loved. I'm sorry, _I'm so sorry_. You deserved to know and I never…" He pressed his lips to the roses, burying his face in them a moment before leaning forward to place them against the headstone. As he did so he kept leaning forward until he was nearly lying on top of the grave. His hands clutched at the grass. "They were _all_ right, we were a couple. We were practically married to each-other. You were my other half, and now… and now I…" his voice squeaked painfully, strangled by the grief that gripped his entire being. "I can't do this, I can't pull myself together when half of me is here. I can't pretend we were just friends anymore, because that's _not_ how it hurts. It hurts like we were really..." His voice dropped to a barely audible whisper as he murmured into the grass, "So now I'm asking you Sherlock, I know it's fast for a first date," he choked on his attempt to joke again, "and yet it's still too late." Time stretched as he cried into the grass, struggling to hold back the awkward squeaks and moans as he struggled to breathe against the pain that crushed his chest, but at length he reached up and fingered the bow on the bouquet of roses and Sherlock noticed for the first time that something was dangling from it, something that glinted as John half-slipped his finger through it: a golden ring. With a huge sniff John regained his voice, "I'm asking you to be mine, for….always. Please…, just let be your husband, Sherlock; I think in a way I already was. Because I know now, there's never going to be anyone else for me. I'll wait till the end of my life for you Sherlock, knowing you're waiting for me here. I…._I love you. I love y…_"

The candle flickered, John lay sobbing silently into the grass, and Sherlock stood as if hypnotized, staring down at him. John had said it. What Sherlock had known and yet ignored. They had avoided being lovers, and yet they had been a couple all the same. John had loved him, _still loved him_, so deeply, and without consciously admitting it to himself, Sherlock had nevertheless known that _that _was what his sacrifice, and his ongoing obsession which threatened it's effectiveness, was all about. No amount of ignoring it or trying not to care could change it: he loved John every bit as deeply as John loved him. This was the fact he had failed to calculate into his plan, the fact that they were a unit, that their strength was _together_. It was no use at all, their being apart. He had always done things on his own, but not anymore.

"John," his voice came out strangled and hoarse, and then "John," he tried again but it was barely a whisper.

Before he could stop himself, Sherlock found his knees in the grass, his arms gathering John to himself so firmly that though John yelped and tried to scramble away in shock, he wasn't able to push Sherlock off him. He pressed John's head against his chest, and John being so weak from crying could do nothing but let himself be clutched like a rag-doll as Sherlock's voice rumbled through him.

"You asked for a miracle, but all I can give you is the truth." Sherlock's grip tightened automatically as he remembered the threat of loosing John. "You were to be shot if I didn't jump. I couldn't…" Sherlock was surprised to hear his own voice waver and catch. He meant to continue, but the desperate satisfaction of holding John safe and sound muddled any attempts of his mind to compose his explanation and instead he merely buried his face in John's hair.

John's hands grasped him and then pushed back just enough so he could peer up into Sherlock's face with a look of disbelief and horror which shifted quickly to wonder and desperate desire as his eyes darted over every detail of Sherlock's very real face, and then back to consternation as he couldn't believe his senses. John's hands trembled as they slid over Sherlock's arms and chest and face feeling the solidity of his muscles and bones and skin. His head was shaking as more tears filled his eyes, indeed his whole body was shaking with shock. His mouth tried to stammer but nothing came out.

Sherlock had no idea what to do, or what he was doing, but he had to stop John's panic and tears, he had to put his old John back together again, he had to salvage this mess he'd made of their lives, he had to tell John how he really felt, he had to obtain his forgiveness, …he had to let John breathe as he found himself smothering John's trembling lips with his own. He had to not spring back suddenly in shock at what he'd just done. Although he thought he must have only intended the kiss as a brief greeting, although John struggled against him for a moment, something told him it was vital that he not let go now, and sure enough John soon melted once more in his grasp and he tasted the flood of fresh tears as John let his own weight press their lips and bodies closer together. Physically speaking, this was rather awkward what with their tangled limbs and soggy lips, but mentally Sherlock found it surprisingly satisfying. At long last he was admitting the truth, and laying claim on the one thing he wanted most to possess.

John suddenly tugged him desperately towards himself, kissing back like this was a dream that could end any second, and they found themselves laying in the grass, Sherlock completely trapping John beneath him. Sherlock wasn't quite sure what he was doing, only that it seemed John was trying to tell him something without words and for once he was struggling to keep up, though he had no desire to cut John short this time. Hearts pounding against each-other, they breathed heavily while their lips struggled not to part, teary saliva spiderwebbing between them when they momentarily slipped away from each-other. Yet the ungracious form of their first kiss hardly mattered in light of the desperate relief that surged through them at finally sharing this intimacy. There was no room for self-consciousness in the midst of the torrent of their pent up desire.

When at last they paused a moment, John stared up at Sherlock with bewildered, swimming eyes. Sherlock knew he must have looked just as astonished as John did, but he was still faster than John at processing things, and quickly regained his momentary lapse in control.

"It's not a dream, John," Sherlock assured him in his low, urgent murmur. "You're not mad. I'm here now. I had to fake my death to save your life. I wanted you to believe what everyone else did because it was all part of the act, and because I thought you would be safer if you weren't associated with me anymore, but I can't protect you from my enemies _and_ protect you from your sorrow. So we'll work together from now on. If we die it will be together, I promise." That was the short version of it, which he figured was all John had hope of taking in at the moment.

John shook his head still disbelieving, but there was a spark of life in his eyes once more. Sherlock softly wiped John's cheek and stroked his hair back from his forehead, gazing hungrily into his eyes. How he'd missed them! To finally touch John again and look into his face made the past months of loneliness all the more bitter, made him realize just how much he'd been longing for him without fully recognizing what he felt. Suddenly all his uncertainty about his feelings was gone. "My answer is yes, John." He declared.

John's brow creased in confusion. "You….what?….but….I…h-how?…" John finally managed to stammer out in a whisper, having lost his voice for the moment. He looked completely overwhelmed, and Sherlock couldn't help the slight smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth. Even so careworn and tearstained, John really was adorable, which he reluctantly admitted _did_ have quite an effect on him. Sherlock traced a fingertip over John's lips to hush him and patiently reiterated, "You asked me to marry you, I'm saying yes." He reached for the roses then, and managed to untie the ring with one hand. Propping himself up on his elbow, he held it between them for John to see, then pressed it into his hand.

He could see John still thought he must be dreaming as he turned the ring over in his hand and, trancelike, touched Sherlock's hand where it now lay on his chest. More tears welled in his eyes as he obviously told himself he shouldn't pass up this chance even if he was going to wake up, perhaps in a padded cell somewhere. John slid the ring onto Sherlock's finger and it fit. He gazed up at Sherlock looking so sad and so desirous. His lack of protests were a sure sign he wasn't trying to believe this could be real. At this point Sherlock guessed John didn't even care if he was insane if it meant he could be with Sherlock in some form or another.

"John, don't you know I'm always right. I told you, this_ is_ real." Sherlock insisted, trying not to be impatient with the way John's mind always got hung up on what he thought he ought to believe instead of what was right before his eyes. As he gazed into John's eyes willing John to see it was truly him, he found himself irresistibly drawn to connect their lips again. John kissed back more softly this time, as if contemplating, as if trying to focus all his attention on whether or not these sensations were real or imagined. He tugged on Sherlock's lip, he tasted his mouth, he ran his lips and tongue repeatedly over every texture of Sherlock's lips and tongue, he pressed their faces together and breathed deeply of Sherlock's scent. Sherlock quite enjoyed this new 'scientific inquiry' approach to kissing, filing away all his own data about John's flavor and technique and what he seemed to like. Finally, John seemed to be convinced of his reality and kissed him more fervently again before pushing him back to look at him in astonishment.

"You bloody….!" He was lost for words. "I should hate you." He stated. But after a moment a smirk tried to tug at his lips.

"But you love me." Sherlock nearly grinned at him in his unexpected pride in this discovery. John wanted _him _over anyone else. The idea elated him far more than he thought it ought.

John was still shaking his head in amazement, but it wasn't really disbelief this time. "Yes I do, God help me." John laughed wryly as he echoed Lestrad's words, his smile twitching with the tears that struggled for control of his face. "More than anything," he breathed, searching Sherlock's face and hardly daring to hope that Sherlock could be both alive _and_ in love with him.

Sherlock felt himself blushing due to the butterflies he now felt in his own stomach as he took in the sensation of the rest of John pressed under him, now that he wasn't focused only on his mouth. His brow creased as he tried to reconcile the obvious evidence of their attraction to each-other with the previously supposed impossibility of such a thing for either of them. His eyes darted back and forth as he reviewed everything in his head since the day they'd met. He was certain of what he felt now, though he still needed to work out how it had come to be, needed to reframe the assumptions through which he had previously viewed their interactions. Sherlock's look of perplexity, and embarrassment at admitting his feelings, dragged on for several minutes while John watched him working out everything he had only recently sorted out for himself.

"Stumped by love?" John teased him but there was an undertone of fear that Sherlock would jump back at any second and deny everything, or perhaps just flee.

Sherlock's attention switched back to the current moment and a slight glare flashed in his eye at being teased, but it was immediately softened by the look of adoration on John's face. He involuntarily flushed as a shiver ran through him.

"Yes,itwouldseemIdoloveyou,John." He hastily reassured him, muttering as if embarrassed to actually say the words, though inwardly he was marveling at this revelation. He felt vaguely irritated at himself that he seemed unable to express the depth and intensity of his feelings eloquently outside of his own mind. It seemed John knew how to translate his reluctance and understatement, however, for his eyes teared up once again, this time with a joy so deep it hurt. John reached for Sherlock's lips with his own and pressed Sherlock to him with all his strength. Sherlock found it oddly comfortable letting John take control for the moment, and this time it was himself who melted into John's embrace.

After a long warm mingling of their lips, John made a soft, awkward laugh of incredulous happiness as he released Sherlock's mouth and nuzzled his face into Sherlock's neck. Wrapping a leg over Sherlock's and sliding his fingers into his hair, John snuggled him, which made Sherlock feel a mixture of annoyance and contentment. He tried to let the contentment win, this did feel unsettlingly good after all, in spite of feeling a little ridiculous and having grass now poking his face while his nose was crushed somewhere near John's ear. After a few minutes John's grip tightened on him almost painfully as he began to shake again with yet another wave of tears.

"God, I missed you _so_ much," John murmured into his neck, "You were everything to me. I _died_ with you, Sherlock." John clutched him desperately and sniffed loudly in his ear. Sherlock let him sob into his shoulder, and didn't protest as John's tight grip pulled his hair. Sherlock held him tightly in return, silently accepting the blame for all John's anguish, willing now to endure whatever it would take to make up for it. He had done what was necessary, and he didn't regret that, but that didn't lessen the hurt he'd caused John, and John's feelings did _matter_.

Although he normally avoided it, Sherlock suddenly itched to say "Forgive me." It came out in a tiny whisper that was further muffled by John's neck. He couldn't be sure John had even heard him so he pried himself from John's clutches to prop himself up on his elbows once more so that he could see John's expression. He felt inexplicably shy all of a sudden in John's solemn gaze. The evidence of John's depression lingered on his features making Sherlock feel small under the unaccustomed weight of guilt, irrational as he told himself it was; another feeling he'd been struggling to understand in the past months of their separation. Sherlock glanced down, and then back at John with a momentary look of chagrin, "John, I…meant to protect you and take care of things on my own, but I watch you whenever you come here." He admitted, a touch of shame colouring his cheeks. "I've um, I've heard you yelling at me, so you don't have to repeat yourself." He cleared his throat awkwardly, "I suppose I owe you an apology for being the biggest idiot of all." He mumbled, once again incapable of properly translating what he felt into words.

John was obviously struck by this uncharacteristic humility, but the pain and anger, disbelief and indignation, longing and joy, relief and hope, concern and affection which all collided on his face were more than he knew how to express. "Yes… I don't…" John shook his head helplessly, then his arms tightened around Sherlock. "Actually I don't think I even care anymore just as long as you're here to stay."

"I'll make it up to you." Sherlock muttered, not meeting his gaze.

"Don't _ever_ leave me again." John commanded him with a dangerous edge to his voice.

Sherlock's glance flicked back up at that. He felt almost childlike under John's stern gaze. After a long moment in which their eyes seemed to pass more understanding between them than any words they could have exchanged, Sherlock answered in his firm deep voice. "Never." And then after a moment more, "I give you my word, John."

"Well that's a start." John laughed weakly, his old spirit trying once more to come through.

"And?" Sherlock had no idea what John might expect of him now, and didn't presume he would guess right at what John needed to restore his trust and forgiveness.

John's expression turned mischievous. "For seconds you can share that wine with me." he glanced over at it.

Sherlock cocked his brow.

"And I'm sure I can come up with a number of other forms of recompense as we go along." John threatened, still too worn to sound truly jaunty, though he was trying, perhaps as an attempt to reassure Sherlock that he forgave him.

Sherlock began to sit up, with a rueful smile on his face. "Don't expect me to be your slave now, John, though I suspect you'll never let me forget how much I owe you."

"True," John nodded struggling to a sitting position himself, "but then I owe you everything too, you know." John grabbed his hand and pulled him, crawling awkwardly, to sit together with their backs against the headstone.

"Sorry I only brought one glass." John apologized as he reached for the wine.

Sherlock chuckled, "With half your bodily fluids smeared all over my face, I can hardly object to sharing a glass." John blushed and dabbed at Sherlock's face with his scarf, then wiped his own on it as well. "Oh, thank you." Sherlock added sarcastically and John elbowed him.

"I think you'd find some of that was yours, if you were to analyze it." John informed him.

Sherlock summoned a stony look of denial. "You know I don't cry," he countered, though there was a glint in his eye that admitted John was right. John's love for him had touched him deeply.

"No, just like you have no friends, and no heart, and are laying six feet under." John laughed smugly. "You can't fool me, Sherlock."

"No?" he challenged with a sly chuckle. "You're not that clever, John."

"You're not that inhuman, Sherlock." John retorted.

"Thank you, John," He suddenly turned serious. John looked at him questioningly. "For believing in me." Sherlock finished. He knew John would understand that he meant for everything else as well.

"Just returning the favor," John smiled solemnly up at him, "You gave me a life when I thought mine was over." They gazed at each-other a moment. "Then you took it away from me," he added awkwardly, glancing down.

Sherlock glanced away as well. "I made a mistake. I _am_ lost without you, John," he murmured, as much as he hated to admit needing anything. "On my own, I've felt as though I really was dead."

John looked up at him again to study the truth of this admission in Sherlock's face and Sherlock blinked back the moisture that was accumulating in his own eyes. It had killed him inside that he'd had to turn to Molly instead of John in his greatest need in order to save John in the long run. The realization that Sherlock had also been in emotional pain all this time seemed to do away with whatever anger John had left in him, for John's expression turned to one of concern for him. Sherlock's instinct was to bristle at anyone showing sympathy to him, but he secretly appreciated John's caring nature in contrast to his own, and right now it meant a great deal to see John putting aside all his own cares to consider Sherlock's. John reached a hand up to hold Sherlock's face, then kissed his cheek gently.

"You idiot." John murmured good-naturedly, and Sherlock nudged his head against John's with a faint smile.

A bit hesitantly, Sherlock laced his fingers with John's on the glass, and then holding each-other's gaze they raised it together.

"To us." John said.

"mm." Sherlock nodded agreement. They played tug-o-war a moment over who got the first sip, bumping their heads together. Even inconveniences like that felt strangely nice with John. Sherlock ignored the annoyance he thought he ought to have felt and instead let himself smile warmly at John.

John sighed as he settled against Sherlock's shoulder and gazed out across the lawn, looking vaguely wistful. Sherlock watched him solemnly. It took him a moment to convince himself to take the action that came to mind, but after a few minutes of silence he put his right arm around John's shoulders shifting him closer against himself, tucking John's head under his chin, and then placed his left hand gently on John's leg. John stirred himself from his reverie to look at Sherlock's hand. Tentatively, he touched the ring and traced Sherlock's long spidery fingers, and Sherlock let him even though it sort of tickled, not to mention that it conjured more butterflies in his gut.

"We can't make it official as I'm supposed to be dead, but I will put a ring on your finger as well, John." Sherlock said wrapping his fingers around John's hand. He liked the idea of marking John as belonging to him. John looked up at him uncertainly to study Sherlock's face, rather surprised that he was really serious about this, then glanced down again blushing and dug in his pocket.

"I had to buy them as a set," he mumbled, pulling out a matching gold band. "I wanted to wear it, but…didn't want to offend you, or face everyone's questions." Sherlock could tell he'd been secretly rubbing it any chance he got, hidden away in his pocket. "I'd thought maybe I'd put it on a chain round my neck, as you'd pointed out on a widow before." John's voice had grown small and quivery again as he stared down into his hand. "God, I felt like your widow."

Sherlock rested his forehead against John's and took the ring. He was determined to try his best to be everything John needed and wanted. Gently, he uncurled John's fingers and slid the ring onto his finger, whispering in his ear. "With this ring…" he faltered, fighting his feeling of self-consciousness at being romantic, but he forced himself to continue, "I thee wed." He held John's hand to his lips, unable to raise his eyes for a moment. It was a bit easier to say things when they weren't looking at each-other.

"I love you, John," he said steadily this time with his eyes closed. When he opened them he was staring straight into John's eyes, shining with new tears as he held his gaze. Sherlock's lips moved again with barely a whisper, "I love you."

They kissed again, still a little awkward as they were unused to indulging that desire with each-other, yet it was nonetheless sweet and in that moment felt nothing short of perfect. Sherlock wrapped himself around John, nearly pulling him into his lap and they sat with their heads together, John still wondrously feeling the solidity of Sherlock.

"It's not much of a first date, I suppose," John said sounding a little disappointed in himself. "Nor a place for a proposal, or wedding," he laughed wryly, "But I don't think I fancy crying in a restaurant tonight."

"The place doesn't matter, if the sentiment is true." Sherlock countered, reasonably. "But… a graveyard is rather romantic," he mused in his rich voice. "Love beyond death." He said half mocking, half serious. He glanced down at John's head and kissed it. "Better than a morgue anyway." He added with a glint of mischief in his eye.

John laughed and looked up at him with a faint smile. It was good to see glimpses of the old John still in there.

"Which, by the way," Sherlock added, "is not where I like to 'get off.'"

"No?" John smirked, and then recklessly ventured, "Where then?"

"In our room, with you of course."

"But, before…?" John eyed him with wary curiosity.

"I didn't before." Sherlock said simply, but then added as John stared at him incredulously, "John you are the only person or thing that has ever come close to inducing in me a desire to 'get off'." John looked thoroughly perplexed. "You know I'm asexual," he defended, "but I have to admit that sometimes, I've thought of you, …and wondered." He bit his lip and glanced down, hoping John wouldn't be offended, "Well, sometimes I fought the desire to… out of respect for you, and because I couldn't let myself succumb to such folly." He hadn't intended to admit this, as he'd never really admitted it to himself before now.

When he glanced furtively at John, he was surprised to see a look of understanding in his eyes. He'd expected disappointment or offense.

"Sometimes I fought it too, though I never let myself believe it was you that I wanted." John said quietly. "So I guess we're both sort of, each-other's exception." He blushed.

"Yes, I suppose." Sherlock looked slightly troubled, "You're not…disappointed that I'm not more…?" he trailed off.

"No." John said thoughtfully, "Actually, after the army you're kind of a relief, a guy who doesn't have his mind on just one thing, sex, whether it's with women, or other men. I don't really miss the constant innuendos." He laughed awkwardly, "Well they're not all like that, but you know, guys…" he paused to gather his thoughts a moment, and Sherlock waited patiently in the silence feeling quite relieved to hear John confirm that he wasn't quite so sex-crazed as it seemed so many people were. "I guess I fell in love with you without any of that, so I can hardly love you less for giving me even a little. " He blushed deeply and dropped his eyes from Sherlock's to study his chest as he continued to mumble, "And I'm not really sure how, …well, how I'd like it…with you, um…"

"We'll work it out one way or another. As I said before, 'I'm not alarmed by sex,' I just don't normally want it. …Although," he caught John's chin and tipped his head back up so he could look at him, his eyes settling on John's mouth. He paused contemplating John's lips and his unexpected compulsion to press his own against them. It was an interesting glimpse of normal people's existence for him. Kissing had always seemed rather distasteful before now. "I think I rather like kissing you, John." He did so, and then simply sat embracing him as the candle stuttered in the light mist that had begun to fall.

"I don't suppose you eat now that you've come back from the dead do you?" John slipped his hand into Sherlock's coat to feel his ribs through his shirt, saying, "Skinnier than I last saw you."

Sherlock smirked, "Only to prove to you I'm really here." He teased him.

"Do you walk though walls now too?" John quipped back.

"Yes as a matter of fact, it's easy when you know how to spot hidden passages." He winked.

"So how did you…?"

"It's a long story, which perhaps Molly should explain, as she made it work."

"Modesty now? That's new. Not taking full credit for everything yourself?"

"Nonsense, it's just that the credit is usually mine."

John chuckled, "Good, I don't think I could have believed a Sherlock who was both sentimental _and_ humble."

Sherlock glanced at the sky and reached for the takeaway box. "Do you still want to eat here?"

"Do you want to walk into a restaurant with me?" John's look asked _'are you ready to reveal you're alive?'_

"Hrmm…" Sherlock admitted the difficulty. He could walk in public freely enough, even with only a simple disguise, but with John it was more likely he would be recognized, and he didn't fancy starting any rumors yet.

"What are we going to do, Sherlock?" John asked, very seriously now as he began to think of all the implications.

"I'll think of something," Sherlock brushed it off with his usual self-assurance. "After all, I am a genius." he added with a roguish wink, just to annoy John.

John snorted and rolled his eyes, but couldn't help the excitement dawning on his face. "I suppose my life is going to get crazy again."

Sherlock gave him a look of reproof for the word 'crazy.' He knew John didn't like it any other way.

John regarded him with wry satisfaction. "Well I should know there's never a dull moment with _you_."

Sherlock smirked, "One can only hope."

The mist wasn't quite heavy enough to merit seeking shelter, but it was gradually creating a shimmering layer of condensation on the grass as well as their hair, and the damp chill made them grateful of each-other's warmth. John opened the takeaway box to reveal shrimp scampi over capellini. It wasn't the neatest thing to eat without a table and napkins, but it didn't seem to have suffered much from the lapse of time or being jostled in the bag on the way there. They took turns with the single fork enjoying the comfortable silence of each-other's presence after so many months of the empty silence of loneliness. They seemed to share a mutual understanding that while there was much yet to be said, it needn't be addressed tonight, nor all at once. Just _being_ together mattered most at the moment.

Sherlock laughed to himself at the irony of leaning against his own headstone, and marveled at the sense of satisfaction he felt from John's head resting on his shoulder. He really had been jealous of John sharing his attention and affection with people other than himself, even though at the time he would have claimed that was a ridiculous accusation. Even earlier today he wouldn't have believed this a plausible scenario, and yet once John had said it he couldn't deny their love had been quite obvious all along. After his miserable time alone, there was no question that he wanted to be with John for the rest of his life.

As John finished off the last of the pasta, Sherlock picked up the bouquet he had displaced by the headstone, and examined it. There was a little card stuck in amongst the flowers. He could feel John turning red as he read it.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_Brilliant Detective and Beloved Husband _

"That's what it should say." John said determinedly, though still nervous about being so presumptuous.

"That's what it will say." Sherlock replied with confidence.

They shared a long stare that promised each-other they were irrevocably a couple now, and that they would work together to make the future turn out right.

John reached for the candle and blew it out. "Home?" He inquired, looking worried that Sherlock might feel the need to keep staying elsewhere to keep his cover. John's tone became very serious then, making it clear he didn't care about the risks "I understand you thought you were protecting me, but …_please_ come home."

That word still meant Baker Street to Sherlock. It was more than just a place to sleep though he'd tried to tell himself that's all it was, somehow it was where he belonged. Perhaps it was because that was where John was, though he doubted they would ever want to move elsewhere in the future. He'd been unaccountably relieved when John hadn't had the heart to actually move out. Though he'd avoided it for a while in his grief, John had been drawn back to it, like he was drawn to Sherlock's grave, like he was drawn to Sherlock. For Sherlock 221B was one other tiny thread that connected him to life, his real life which he was waiting to get back to. He shouldn't be seen there just yet, but the look in John's eyes made him determined to find a way to make it work, at the very least for tonight.

John swallowed back more tears, as he waited on Sherlock's decision. "I _need_ you." He urged.

In answer, Sherlock stood and pulled John to his feet. "I know." He said gently, holding John's shoulders to steady him. John gathered everything up then and Sherlock kept hold of his roses. John seemed to have expected him to leave them there, but they were for _him_ after all and Sherlock appreciated what they stood for. Apparently John thought it was cute that he was holding onto them, what with the way his eyes twinkled at Sherlock, and Sherlock turned his gaze away feeling as though his face must match them, but as he felt John's hand slide into his he turned back to meet John's smile with one of his own. John's step was considerably lighter as they left the cemetery hand in hand.

As they climbed into a cab, John hesitated on the seat, looking longingly at Sherlock but obviously feeling apprehensive about being together in public. Sherlock gave him a minute nod that ordered him to 'stop dithering and get over here,' as that was clearly what John wanted, and John awkwardly slid across the seat to join him. Gradually John settled in against Sherlock's shoulder once more, necessitating that he move his arm out from behind John to let him snuggle up with Sherlock's arm round him. As weary as John was, Sherlock suspected he was beginning to doze off on him by the time they reached Baker Street. Sherlock sighed inwardly, telling himself he'd better get used to this. He knew John to be an affectionate person, and figured it was to be expected that having lost Sherlock once would incline him to be a bit clingy. He braced himself for what was sure to be a long ongoing battle between his desire to indulge in affection with John, and his annoyance and embarrassment at actually doing so. For the first time Sherlock began to realize that perhaps his taboo on showing sentiment was not entirely logical.

John jerked awake when the cab came to a stop and seemed flustered by having been caught napping on Sherlock. Sherlock paid the cabby himself before John had fished out his wallet, and John didn't glance back to see if the man was staring at them as he hurried to the front door. Sherlock felt a little conspicuous standing before 221B in the flesh once again, and hoped no one would notice them before they got inside. He bounced anxiously on the balls of his feet while John fiddled with the key, as he also considered the possibility of Mrs. Hudson coming out to the hall just then to tell John something and having a fright at the sight of him. But the hall was quite empty as they stomped up the familiar stairs together once again.

"I've um…I haven't had the heart to move anything." John said as he swung the door open, looking abashed.

Sherlock was quite pleased as he strode in to find the place almost as he'd seen it last. He paused a moment taking in all the details, letting John take his coat and scarf to hang them in their old place. He turned to John with a look of satisfaction and noted aloud with a pretense of reproach, "You've been sitting in my chairs."

John blushed and put his hand on Sherlock's arm as he mumbled "trying to be close to you."

"John, stop apologizing for being sentimental. I already know you are, and I um…I don't mind. That is to say…it's…" he trailed off, but drew John into his arms to communicate that he wanted John to want to be close to him. "…endearing," He finally finished. John gratefully wrapped his arms around Sherlock's middle and they stood for a moment contentedly embracing.

"Now it feels like home again." John said, looking up at him. Sherlock quite agreed. The thought 'our home' and the idea of all they had and would share together here caused a pang of yearning to run through his insides.

A stupid idea struck him then as he stood holding John, but this was a day for following stupid ideas, so he went with it. It was interesting to note how quickly he was loosing any shred of self-consciousness around John; in fact, John's presence seemed to grant him freedom he wouldn't normally grant himself. He took John's hand in his and held it against his chest, dropping his other arm from John's shoulders to loop round his waist, pressing his hips closer against him. John looked completely startled.

"Doesn't a 'real date' traditionally include dancing?" Sherlock explained as he began to sway gently.

"Nnnot usually without music." It was obvious John liked this, even if he was protesting.

"You don't need music to slow-dance, it's basically just standing together anyway. I never saw the point."

John opened his mouth to ask why Sherlock was doing it now then, but smiled knowingly instead. It was a relief to know that John understood that Sherlock did have a secret sentimental side to him which he was just ashamed to show explicitly. They shared looks of teasing and amusement, and then with a slightly embarrassed colour to his cheeks John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder allowing him to guide their movement. Sherlock supposed John felt awkward because he was used to being in Sherlock's place while dancing with women, but although he wouldn't have minded switching places with John, their difference in height required him to take the traditional male position and he hoped John would be able to adjust and not form some ridiculous insecurity about it. After a minute or two of swaying in silence, Sherlock began to hum, hardly realizing he'd done so as he was busy thinking about John and himself and their future and how nice it felt to be together and how strange it was that he'd manage to become so attached to someone. When he did notice he was humming, he also noticed that John had gone especially quiet, as though he was afraid to distract him. So, John liked that too. It was something he normally only did by himself with his violin. He'd missed that as well. He found himself very thankful that John had been too sentimental to get rid of most of his things.

The gloomy light outside was beginning to fade, and although it was still relatively early in the evening, Sherlock knew John was fading a well. It _had_ been quite a day for him. Sherlock began to inch them toward his bedroom as they drifted in slow circles.

"We should put those roses in water." John mumbled as they passed the small table where Sherlock had absently set them down. They broke apart and John went to fetch a vase, or the nearest approximation which turned out to be a large jar which Sherlock had once had some body-part in. Sherlock hovered close behind him peering into the cupboards and inspecting the worktop which was more orderly now.

"I'm sorry we donated most of your equipment to a school where it could do some good." John explained. "And the fridge has been cleaned out" he added with a half-hearted smirk. "Had to take a special load of rubbish to St. Bart's for proper disposal." Then it struck him, "You said Molly helped you do it? So she knew all this time and didn't tell me?!" he frowned.

Sherlock averted his eyes and made an affirmative grunt.

John looked offended for a moment, but then it melted into resign. "I suppose she gave you the rest of your experiments? …yeah." He nodded along with Sherlock.

"John, you matter more than anyone else." Sherlock said urgently, leaning close over him as John filled the jar with water at the sink. "That was why you couldn't know, your grief had to be real so they couldn't suspect my plan. I had to separate myself so they'd leave you alone. I had to look like I was playing his game so I could beat him at it! I didn't think that you…"

John turned to him and placed a hand on his chest to shush him, "I know I know." He said with his eyes shut, then he looked Sherlock straight in the eye, "Sherlock I trust you. I forgive you. I don't even need to know all the details to know that. It's just going to take me a while to get over it, okay?" his voice went hoarse on the last word, and he gave a little cough and turned back to study the empty worktop. Sherlock gazed at him a moment, then removed the plastic wrapping from around the flowers and placed them in the jar. He glanced at John again and saw him squeezing his eyes shut. Sherlock really did care about John's feelings, though he felt a little lost as to how best to deal with them. Keeping his mouth shut and just being affectionate seemed a relatively safe tactic so far, though it didn't make much sense to him. Sherlock dropped the packet of flower-food in his hand and touched John's shoulder, leaning close to his downturned face, then calculated that wasn't enough and hugged John firmly to himself. John held onto his shirt, and eventually looked up at him to read the solemn remorse in Sherlock's face.

"I really don't want to think about it tonight." John said firmly, "I just want…" he raised a hand to stroke Sherlock's cheek, then shook his head in wonder that he actually loved him this much. Sherlock kissed John's forehead softly and picked up the roses as he nudged John toward the bedroom again. He thought he'd better not leave the flowers out here as it would look suspicious that John hadn't left them at his grave. Sherlock silently congratulated himself on how well he was dealing with John's mood swings. Of course he knew he couldn't have expected any less from John, considering how traumatic the ordeal had been for him, but he would have expected much less from himself; it seemed he hadn't yet managed to make it ten times worse by saying something insensitive. He only hoped he wouldn't ruin everything by being either too forward or too cold while getting into bed, as he couldn't be exactly sure what John's expectations were.

John appeared embarrassed once again as they came through the bedroom door and he turned on the lamp. "I um…" he mumbled.

Sherlock saw at once that John had been sleeping in his bed, as well as sitting in his chairs, and smiled. His poor sentimental John missing him so badly…tonight he wouldn't have to grasp at emptiness beside him. Sherlock had never relished the idea of sharing his bed with another person, but the thought of being what John needed made him almost eager to do so now. Before John could start mumbling more apologies, Sherlock set the flowers on the dresser and wrapped his arms around him from behind. He kissed John's ear and could tell he was turning bright red.

"We don't… we don't have to…" John stammered nervously.

"All in good time." Sherlock agreed, turning him around. "But I _am_ sleeping here. I'm not going to leave you tonight."

John grasped him tighter then, "No…_God don't leave me_. Not even for the loo, just…don't…"

Sherlock cupped John's face in his hand and softly kissed along his temple and cheek down to his neck, while wondering what was possessing him to be so tender. John froze and his breath caught and he held onto Sherlock for support as he went a bit faint, but then he gathered his confidence and began unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock felt the desire to stop him, as he was perfectly capable of undressing himself, but forced the impulse back and just let John do it. John stared a moment at his chest and then tentatively touched his fingertips to Sherlock's bare skin before slowly pressing his whole hand over his heart. After that Sherlock's mind went a little blurry as he tried not to over-think this moment. He leaned in to kiss John while simultaneously pulling John's shirt out of his trousers. They helped unbutton each-other's cuffs and somehow in spite of their mutual uncertainty over just how far they wanted to go, they found themselves embracing from head to foot wearing only their pants, which by unspoken agreement they both retained, although the tips of Sherlock's fingers managed to tuck themselves inside the elastic band of John's. Sherlock found the light brushing of hair on John's chest and lower stomach against his own smooth skin seemed to be creating an even greater tickling sensation on his insides than on the surface.

"We'd better go together then," he whispered as he walked John backwards toward the toilet. He let go of John so he could pee and John, glancing away uncertainly, lighted on his toothbrush and decided to busy himself with it. Sherlock noted that his own toothbrush was gone and caught John's eye in the mirror. John gave him an 'oh, right' expression, and handed his toothbrush over to Sherlock while he rinsed his mouth and then used the toilet himself. John surveyed him with a vague look of amusement while he brushed his teeth and Sherlock scowled back at him wondering what on earth he found funny. Then John slipped behind him and leaned against his back, wrapping his arms round him with one hand on his chest and one on his stomach as Sherlock finished bushing and swished water in his mouth a moment. This was a bit inconvenient, but Sherlock put up with it for John's sake.

"My husband." John mused aloud with a soft laugh, "Who would have thought? All I wanted was a flat-share and I got a whole different life than I'd ever dreamed of having. I don't think I've ever thanked Mike properly for this." John squeezed him.

"And what about me?" Sherlock turned to him. "Are you going to thank me properly?" he teased him.

"Your head's big enough already," John retorted looking him over fondly as their arms settled around each-other again, each with their clasped hands resting in the small of each-other's back "and I suppose I'll be thanking you rather _improperly_ for the rest of my life," he added as this time he walked Sherlock backwards all the way to the bed.

They paused, suddenly not quite sure how to go about getting into it, and stood staring at each-other until they were impelled to kiss again. John's toes curled over Sherlock's as he stepped closer, and once again Sherlock had to quell his instinctual annoyance at the enjoyment this little 'inconvenience' caused him. Sherlock's stomach fluttered madly as John's pressed against it, but he knew they were not quite ready to let physical passion take over just yet so with a final gentle tug on John's lower lip he let it slip away. He was, however, immediately sliding his lips softly over John's again, and felt a little unnerved at his body overriding his mind like that. John didn't help, for in Sherlock's moment of hesitance he took over, going on his tip-toes and pressing Sherlock's face closer again with his fingers tugging in his hair. Sherlock's hands slid down John's sides even as he quickly calculated that pushing John's pants down first, even a little, would give him a fright and swiftly get them under control again, but giving him a fright seemed a bad idea so at the last second his fingers slid over the outside of John's pants instead as he held John tightly and leaned back ever so slightly to pull John's tip-toes off the floor for a moment. That surprised John, but not too much, and as Sherlock set him back down John let his feet connect flat with the floor, allowing their lips to part. John almost giggled then in his surprise at how much he was enjoying intimacy with Sherlock and Sherlock's eyes danced at him in return.

Then Sherlock sat down and scooted across to the far side of the bed to make room for John. John climbed in after him and paused, rather like he had earlier in the cab as he drew the blankets up over them both and reached for the lamp, but before Sherlock could turn onto his stomach John crawled over on top of him.

"John, this is…" Sherlock complained with a somewhat strangled voice as he struggled to get comfortable under John's weight. John obligingly shifted off him so Sherlock could better arrange the pillows behind him, but then crawled back onto him once he was settled.

"Just to be sure you can't get up without my knowing it." John told him as he lay with his arms and legs on either side of Sherlock. John propped himself up on his elbows and leaned over Sherlock's face to kiss him slowly in the dark. It seemed his dislike of redundancy didn't apply to kissing, for Sherlock found himself enjoying it, if anything even more keenly, though they had already done so numerous times throughout the evening. In the dark he felt every inch of John pressing against him more vividly. His enjoyment of the sensation of John's skin and the warmth of his human body, of his breath in his mouth and the soft sounds he made as they kissed fascinated Sherlock, for the very idea of anything like this with a person who wasn't John would have repulsed him. Quiet apart from any sexual yearning, what Sherlock found most appealing was how _normal_ sharing such closeness with John felt, when he'd never experienced a close connection with anyone before. He always felt removed and alone, perhaps especially in the presence of others, but it seemed that keeping himself distant from John in the past had in fact felt less natural than this intimacy felt now. Sherlock settled his arms contentedly around John, who eventually shifted slightly to the side though he was still lying half-atop him. The weight was actually more comfortable than awkward now, though his mind refused to shut down while he lay on his back. He would have to roll over eventually, but in the mean-time he lay basking in the comfort of John's affection as John quickly nodded off with his head on Sherlock's chest.

"You'll be here in the morning?" John's quiet voice begged for reassurance once more.

"I promise."

"Mmm" John snuggled against him, "I love you, Sherlock." He mumbled sleepily.

"You too, John." Sherlock murmured back with his nose buried in John's hair.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

John woke to the annoyance of sunlight in the corner of his eye. He moaned. His whole body felt like lead, crushing into the mattress. It seemed like he had been having a good dream, although his mind was complete fuzz at the moment and he couldn't remember it. He couldn't remember coming home last night either, though he must have, as he wasn't still lying on the grass by Sherlock's grave. It was probably just as well that he couldn't remember the details of his dreary life. Reluctantly he pried his eyes open, wincing at the bright light.

Then he saw it: the sun was glinting off a golden ring on a long slender white hand that lay on the pillow next to him. His heaviness suddenly made sense as he became aware of Sherlock's body on top of him. He turned his head toward Sherlock's, which was nuzzled against his own and let his hands slide over Sherlock's skin as he tightened his lax embrace. Sherlock's soft curls tickled John's face and he could feel Sherlock's breath puffing evenly on his neck. The pressure of their chests and stomachs against each-other increased momentarily as they both breathed in deeply at the same time. Sherlock's ankle-bone was digging into his shin where their legs were tangled under the covers. A huge smile dawned on John's face as he closed his eyes and drank in all the real sensations of his own living, breathing, most dearly beloved Sherlock.


End file.
